Your Very Eyes Were Conceived in Sin
by WhereBrokenHeartsLie
Summary: "You think you're any better?" He scoffs, blonde hair clinging to his forehead. "You're just the same as every other Capitol whore," he spits ruthlessly, eyes glinting like sharp metals.They had always planned on giving in, not giving up. Only- not this way. One-Shot, written for THG Kink Meme, with lemon. Heavy angst and dark themes...


**Title**: Your Very Eyes Were Conceived in Sin

**Summary: **"You think you're better?" He scoffs, blonde hair clinging to his forehead. "You're just the same as every other Capitol whore," he spits ruthlessly, eyes glinting like sharp had always planned on giving in, not giving up. Only- not this way.

**Type**: One-shot

**Rating: **M for questionable content that is sexual, dark and abusive in nature.

**Warning:** Contains Catching Fire and Mockingjay spoilers and slight OOC-ness necessary for the plot of the story.

**Words: **4716

**Pairing:** PeetaxKatniss, PeetaxOthers

**Note:** Comment and get a cookie.

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"_Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil,"_ – Friedreich Nietzsche

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Katniss likes to knot ropes. It's become a nervous habit, Dr. Aurelius told Haymitch, but she thinks that it keeps her sane. Finnick has taught her this, she tells herself and it makes her feel safe.

Because the rope is firm, solid and above anything else, _real._

She doesn't make complicated knots like Finnick, because her fingers are too shaky and her movements too incongruent as her nails get caught in the fibres. But she makes simple ones. Simple things please her. Simple things like the soup in District Thirteen, like the grey clothes they all wear, like the peppermint Prim sneaks in, like Finnick's kisses- dewy and soft, like everything she doesn't want to remember.

Things that are harder to get, like the Boy with the Bread, or the Arena, or the Revolution- those things she keeps out of her head.

It's too muddled up in there, anyway.

Sighing like a child would if it's been given a huge task, she pulls out a rope, long and rusted, callous like Finnick's touch and tugs at the fibers. They don't give in. She leans against the table, cold and harsh against her back and keeps her eyes focused on the ropes. They've told her that Peeta is back- back from Hell itself, like the people of the District call it. She does remember his fingers round her throat.

Damage, they said.

Hunger, she replied.

Because really, what was the difference? He had locked his fingers around her throat because of the hunger of causing damage. That's what she believes, anyway. She understands it. The urge to destroy something- someone, because you're full of anger and hurt and everything else. But she hates him, too, for doing that because it makes this whole nightmare, so much more real. Suddenly, it seems that her Boy with the Bread is lost. And perhaps, she won't find him again.

A sudden click jerks her out of her reverie and her wounded grey eyes look up, startle and bewildered. The door falls shut again, bringing with it the one person she doesn't want to see.

He'll only make her hate herself more, won't he?

Peeta stands there; the door shut behind him- a tall, steel thing. His hair is longer than she remembers, and they fall across his forehead like shadows, wings of a dusted angel. His nose seems sunburnt, as if he's been out even if he wasn't allowed to be and his lips are pursed into a cruel leer that seems so very unbecoming on his face. Why? Because he's Peeta and Peeta always smiles- he's not…well…like…this. But then, he's not the same, is he?

His eyes are more obsidian than blue and his lashes seem longer than ever, and she wonders how they don't get entangled with one another. More than anything, this Peeta scares her. Scares her because he looks like a monster- a mutt (the thing she's supposed to be) and the realization dawns upon her.

Peeta was never hers to begin with, was he?

Her trembling fingers undo and redo the knot over and over again, iceless eyes watching him standing so very tall, and so very far. She feels so very tired.

He breaks the silence with his jarring voice, all but shadowing her feeble existence into nothing.

"Knots, now, is it?" he asks sneeringly, and as if reassured by her flinch, he takes a step forward, almost grinning at the shadow of fear stealing across her face.

"Yes," she replies uncertainly, thin bones jutting into the metal of the table, trying to work out what he wants from her- wait, where are the guards? Not that they could protect her anyway. She decides to play her best card- stalling him. "…How do you feel?"

His grin is manic, as if he were suffering an infliction of madness.

"…Perfect," he says jovially, almost too jovially. He takes a step closer. "…Perfect, now, that I've found you here,"

She swallows the bile that rises up in her throat and her shaking hands keep going at the same knot unconsciously as her eyes wrack his face for any sign of the boy she loved. There's none- that Peeta is all but gone.

"Look," she says evenly because she feels afraid and she shouldn't be, because, well, what has she to live for? "…I think you should just rest for a while. You'll get better and we…" she swallows again, nervously licking her lips. "…We can work at being friends,"

His dark laugh is abrupt and sudden and above it all, unnerving. His eyes flash golden black in the light before he steps closer, as if surrounding her with his insanity.

"Friends?" he asks deliriously. "…Friends?" he repeats it again, unsure but cold. "…Friends?" This time it is shrill and furious and all the more insane. "…You think I would become your friend? You? A liar…a betrayer…a mutt! You're a filthy mutt!" He stops abruptly, as if interrupted by another thought. "…I had different sorts of friends back at the Capitol…" This time, when he smiles, it hurts her.

It cuts into her bosom, deep and cruel and she understands what he's saying before he says it.

"…Women…girls, all drooling over me…wanting me…needing me…" His eyes flash fury. "…Loving me," he says finally, accusing her, but she finds it anything but subtle. His words are like daggers, searing bursts of flames, burning her mind and torching her soul. "…They'd whisper things in my ears and wrap their legs around my waist,"

He steps closer, speaking as he entraps her with his words- the one power the Hijacking couldn't take away.

"…They'd gasp, moan and lick their way into my desires and their nails would draw scars on my back. They'd writhe…and scream and fall apart," He's right in front of her now, smelling of old things and regret, the saddest and craziest look in his familiar, old eyes. His hand comes out to touch her chin but she jerks away, flinching and shutting her eyes, as if she were avoiding a blow.

Because she is.

She's avoiding the words, his words and how they strike her like slaps, repetitive and agonizing. Her eyes remain squeezed shut but his fingers reach out to grasp her chin slightly. His touch is like yesterday- fading yet remnant. And so, so familiar.

"…But all the while, I'd be wondering…how would you be…" he utters coolly, and he doesn't sound so sure anymore. "…How you would beg…when I asked you to…how you would move when I slid in…how you would taste…how you would feel…" his voice is dark, hoarse maybe, but unforgiving as it coils around her head and pulls her into an abyss of demise.

The knotted rope is dormant in her grasp but she can't open her eyes. She's too afraid, too weak and far too sad to do such a thing. His nails dig into her soft skin, as if relishing it and she winces, squeezing her eyes shut further still, trying to dislocate herself from his temptation. His disguise- his monstrosity is enveloping her.

"…I fucking hated that," he says calmly, as if he were dictating a story and she finds herself enthralled, mesmerized and so disgusted by his language, his vulgarity. "…Everything I fucked a woman…I'd be thinking about you…you!" He sounds disbelieving and furious, and yet his voice is still, un-rippled. His fingers force her chin to turn his way and her eyelids flutter, her heart in her mouth, heat clenching in her stomach. "…You…a filthy…dirty…mutt,"

Her eyes fly open, no longer afraid and the rope falls through her uncurling fingers. Her gaze meets unfathomable black eyes, lethal and beautiful all in the same moment.

His gaze battles between heated and hateful and Katniss can't point out exactly when she loses her control, but she does. When she later thinks about it, she knows that it must have been that flash of vulnerability in his soulless eyes, the slight turn of his lips that reminded her of the boy she'd lost before she ever had him. Her fingers, burnt and rough, go up towards his face. He doesn't flinch, or move, or do anything at all. Just stands there, stiff and waiting, jaw clenched and eyes cold.

Her fingers run a line of fire down his cheek, as if tracing an old scar.

"Peeta," she breathes ever so softly, and his jaw clenches further, his eyes battling with the emotions he can't hide, not even now. Becoming a being of desire and unrequited everything, she continues, unaware of anything but him. "…What happened to you?"

His pupils dilate a little and the grip on her chin is ferocious, will be sure to leave bruises, little half-moons even and somehow, Katniss can't bring herself to hate him.

Peeta's not sure. Not sure of anything now. Not even of this stinking mutt, whom he has known since forever and yet, somehow cannot recognize. There's slivery memories here and there- there's hatred and there's lust- there's lost and there's found and he can't decide. He's fighting the disease that she's planted in him, but her fingers are like flames, burning his skin and he almost laughs. Because she's the Girl on Fire, isn't she? Her voice is molten heat, confoundedly cursed and yet, profoundly sweet.

So he does what he's not supposed to.

"…I just saw past the lies, Katniss," he says offhandedly, finally, and continues thereafter. "…And now, I want to quell that stupid urge…I want to become tainted, like you…want to taste you…a mutt. And then, maybe I'll enjoy fucking the rest of them back in the Capitol…" He notices the brief flash of pain, of pure and unadulterated hurt in her fathomless eyes (enjoys it) before pulling her forward and sealing her lips with his.

It would be a lie if one were to say they were kissing. It would be a lie if one were to assume that this meant something to both of them, because, really, it didn't- at least not to him. They weren't being romantic, or expressing their love. They have no love in them, and no love left anywhere for them to give. They are hollow, lifeless beings that live with ghosts and sleep with monsters. But they're fighting now, coming back to life, bursting and blooming into fiery hatred that makes them more alive than they have ever been.

It's not gentle, or sweet, or tender, or remotely passionate. It's violent. It's brutal. It's punishing. No soft touches, or gentle hums. It's like torture, and yet sweet in its stead.

Tongues clash, teeth biting and hands run fervently over yearning bodies, nails raking down skin and drawing blood with relish. They throw themselves at each other as if they're lovers who've been torn apart, their passion being rekindled again. But that's a lie, like everything else in their twisted world. They're two people who hate each, want to kill each other and want to be alive. If this is the only way, then so be it.

Katniss knows she's foolish, but she can't bring herself to stop. Not now. Because one touch, one look and she knew, she was gone. His nimble fingers are working expertly at the buttons of her oversized grey shirt and her mind fumbles to grasp the idea that he has more experience than her- that he's done this to so many and that at some point, long ago, this might have meant something to him. Now…now it's just…well, whatever it is.

A stupid part of her hopes that maybe he'll remember, he'll understand he will become the boy she cared so much for.

The better half knows to keep her emotions away.

He pushes her back, making a harsh groaning sound at the back of his throat as he furiously kisses her, pouring in his hatred and his frustration at not knowing. His hands are skilled, practiced even as they pull away her shirt and discard it somewhere in the shadows behind. He grabs a hold of her thin legs and with another yank, has her pajamas off. She bites his lip when he digs his nails into her thigh, body arching into his.

Hard, pebble-like nipples rub against his lean chest.

His whole body feels like it will explode. He's all ridges and planes, hard muscle and lean litheness while she's soft, thin and so fragile. He wants to snap her into two, feel her, consume her…and become her.

Her hands, amateur and uncertain, pull off his tee-shirt and run down the planes of his lean chest. His muscles clench under her touch and he can't find the air to breathe. His head pulses and he pulls away from his kiss, addictive and sick. Panting heavily, it takes him a moment to understand what's happening. She moves against him, unintentionally and he bites his lip, holding back a groan.

His erection is hard, throbbing and just…straining.

Her eyes are dark, he notices and she looks just like one of his Capitol women, even though she's a mutt. No, but she's different, also because her hair isn't the color of red cherries, nor are her lips painted a dark blue, nor is her skin a golden shade and neither are her touches nor her movements calculated. She's pale, shuddering, aching and wanting. She's not like them. Her hands trace over his muscles, groaning at the feel of his bulge against her underwear, rubbing in all the right places.

Tension is building in her stomach, all tight and hot and her breaths are labored. She doesn't dare to look up to Peeta, afraid of what she'll see.

"Do…do...I..." she trails off, gasping when she feels his finger slid up against her slit.

Her nerve endings strain with the effort of controlling this desire.

He watches her face twist into a picture of desperate pain, and muted pleasure as her mouth falls open into an O. Fascinating. Mesmerizing. Enticing, perhaps. He rubs a circle over her clit, touching it through the material of her underwear. Simple, plain and so unassuming, he doesn't think she's beautiful.

She's a stinking mutt.

Her body lifts off the table at one point, and expertly, he stops his ministrations, sensing the moisture coming from her heated core. Her cheeks are flushed; her eyes black and her hands are pressed to his chest, above his heart.

Katniss can see him now, through a delicate haze and she wants nothing more than to please him- relieve him, make him forget everything but her and her only. Her hands, trembling, travel down towards his groin and he remains, unyielding but unmoving, watching her face. She never, once, looks up, because her body is liquid fire and she will burn if she catches his look, his gist, and his very sinful eyes.

Instead, she slips a hand into his trousers, into his boxers and finds his member. Hard, warm and pulsating with desire.

"…Fuck," he hisses hotly when her burning touch sears his shaft. His whole body is tense now, straining, each muscle coiling in anticipation, hips urging him to thrust forward and find release. His lips are pursed, breath ragged as he leans forward.

Strangely, she doesn't move away.

Katniss, instead, looks up to his face, terrified.

It's twisted into a picture of pain.

Is she hurting him? Abruptly, she moves her hand away, unsure and shocked by the look of agony that is etched onto his beautiful face. She wants to please him, protect him, save him by giving herself away. But it wasn't supposed to be this way. Was never supposed to be like this. But it is, and his eyes fly up to hers, dark and forbidding.

His nails dig into her arms as he leans forward and mutters in her ear, in a voice she's never heard before, all desperate, dark and urgently low, he rasps, "…Touch me," he says hotly and a shudder springs her body into his, hard nipples torching his flesh. He fights back a choked sigh. "..Touch me, Katniss," He growls, orders and demands.

She gives in. Always has, always will.

Her hand, inexperienced, grasps his shaft tersely and she tugs, watching his face with a heated glare. He lets out a strangled sound, half-way between a groan and a sigh and she finds herself enthralled. Wondering, she does it again, fingers clenching around his member before pulling. Her thumb rubs across the head that oozes with something wet and sticky, making her stomach feel hot and bothered.

Her movements, first uncertain and slow, now turn into fast and rough, as if she were playing this game with him, because they've always been playing games, haven't they? Her touch is fire, her tugging frenzied and her breath is falling into short, stuttering gasps as she watches him strain, fight and hate all at once. His brow is perspiring and his whole body is tightening, locking and his touch is consuming her, as he clings to her arms, breasts rubbing against his chest, creating delicious friction.

"Stop," he chokes out. "..Oh…please,…fuck, stop," he says again desperately, as if in intense pain.

His eyes are fluttering.

She moves her hand away.

It takes a moment for him to collect himself.

And then, he's uncontrollable. Grasping her thighs, cock throbbing with need, he pushes her thin limbs apart, placing wet, hot kisses on the hollow of her neck.

She throws her head back, as his finger slides into her. He pushes in another, enjoying the look of discomfort and pleasure steal across the mutt's face as he glances up. She's so tight, so damned tight and hot, bursting, and dripping. His belly churns and he wants so badly to just fuck her. But he has to prepare her.

Katniss is mute, at a loss of words. She can barely breathe, let alone voice anything. Her eyes are squeezed shut as his fingers thrust in and out of her, hard and crude and so pleasurable. Her hips lift off the cold metal of the table, meeting him for each push, wanting the coil to release. She wants this to be special, on a bed maybe, or by the sea because this is Peeta and he's supposed to be her only one. Her whole body is engulfed in lust but her mind, through the haze, tells her to stop because this isn't how it's supposed to be.

His tongue swirls around her nipple and she feels hot and cold shivers running across her body. Everything is painful and yet so…so pleasurable. Her breasts feel heavy, her nails digging into his arms as he places wet, open-mouthed kisses against the skin of her neck. He stops abruptly, pulling his fingers out and the ache in her stomach is terrifying. She opens her eyes slowly, dazed and angry, and watches him as he pulls off his trousers, his boxers and straightens, naked.

His member is red, veined and throbbing, the head almost purple from all that torture. His eyes meet hers quite suddenly and she feels her mouth go dry. The animal nature, the primal urge, the carnal need finishes it all. He crosses over to her wet, sweaty body in two long strides and pushes her thighs apart, angling his member right before her opening, teasing the wet heat with the tip.

She can't breathe. Her lips are open, gasping and her whole body is throbbing, as her hips shift, trying to pull him in. With a feral growl, he pulls away, almost smirking at the furious, pleading look she gives him.

His own breath is ragged and hot, as he trembles inwardly at the idea of her tight heat swallowing him whole. But he's practiced and he has some control, even though all the mutt's wriggling is pissing him off. Does she really have no idea? Her eyes are wide, mouth parted and her hair, earlier in a braid, fall cross her thin shoulders like shadows.

A distant part of Peeta thinks she looks appealing.

"Let's…see…how fucking you feels like," he whispers darkly against the hollow of her throat, holding her hips down as he thrusts right into her.

It's unimaginable.

She's so tight.

So fucking tight.

He doesn't stop, though he should've because he's broken through the barrier and her body is hurting from the roughness of his intrusion. But he's a monster, an animal and he wants it now. So, he pulls right back out and plunges in, arms securing themselves around her waist as her legs wrap around his hips, ankles digging into the dimples at the bottom of his back. Her nails add more scars to the constellation of wounds on his back and he growls when the pain dizzies him.

He can't barely stand- his knees are weak and his body straining.

Katniss is uncomfortable at first, but the feeling goes away- the feeling of pain and dizzying terror is erased when he thrusts in again because now, it's all pleasure. White, hot pleasure. He builds a rhythm expertly (he's done it before, hasn't he?) and fucks her hard, just like the others back home except she is more real than they were. Her bottom rests against the cold metal table and it would hurt except now, Peeta, her dear loving Peeta has hit the right spot and her stomach is bubbling, coiling and her whole body burns like never before.

He stops thrusting for a minute, and because she's so light, he lifts her off his cock slowly, groaning at the loss of her wet, virgin heat, before sliding her onto him, muttering dark curses against her neck. She wraps her arms around his neck and he pulls her close, securing his arms around her waist.

She feels jagged, fragile and he wants to break her, destroy her and fuck her so hard she won't remember anything but him. The stupid, lying mutt. Nothing so good about it, is there?

He lifts her hips off, then pulls them down, inadvertently making her ride him as he stands on weak knees.

It becomes frenzied, hurried and brutal at one point, as if they were animals. Her legs slip away because of the sweat and he pins her to the wall as his hips thrust harder, hitting the right spot in her because she throws her head back, hits the wall, barely feels the pain as her stomach aches and aches. Their cheeks rub together and he can hear her muttering something over and over again, near his ear but he can't really understand it. Her voice is like a songbird, musical and high-pitched.

_I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, _she mutters over and over again.

He freezes for a moment, because he's heard and he mutters something in return, something that sounds like whore but she can't be sure because the pleasure is intense and her blood rushing to her ears, every thing seems jaded. He starts moving again, hard, quick, brutal thrusts.

He's breathing hard, hot against her ear and she's arching into him and it snaps.

They come together.

She, with a keening scream that falls short because she can't breathe and he, with a dark oath in her ear. Her thin body convulses in his arms, writhing as she rides the tidal waves of pleasure, surrounding his soft cock with her hot juices. He spills himself inside her, hips thrusting and shoulders clenching, stomach loosening as the pleasure rocks him into oblivion, body uncoiling. He remains inside her for a long, terrifying moment, his cheek resting against hers, panting breaths falling onto her shoulder. She feels tiny, broken. Something wet slips down his cheek and he realizes that she's crying.

Quickly, in a practiced manner, he untangles himself from her, pushing away her legs and almost throwing her body away from his. His knees are trembling and he's sure his legs will buckle soon, so Peeta knows he has to get out…now. His member hardens a little at the sigh of her naked body but he ignores it. She's the mutt. But he doesn't so much feel like killing her anymore.

_It wasn't great, wasn't good, wasn't satisfying, wasn't intense, or anything at all._

He doesn't look at her but he can hear her sniffling, cowering away from him. He dresses quickly because it is what he does best, pulling on his tee-shirt and his trousers, ignoring the sweat and blood coating his body. He turns away to leave and Katniss, the broken doll of the rebellion; the fucking mutt who's played with him decides to speak up.

"Is that it?" to his shock, she sounds strong and unbreakable, not weak and miserable.

He turns around quietly, eyes like razor blades, slicing into her heart.

Katniss, though weak and dizzy from her high, stands straight and naked and the tears run down her cheeks, cold and unforgiving, a reminder of her mistakes. Her whole system is dying, crushing and fading inside. But outside, she's the same Girl who pulled out those berries.

"You think you're special?" he snarls so spitefully that despite herself, she flinches. "…That you're better than them?" he scoffs lecherously and points at her, enjoying the flash of pain in her eyes. "…You," he jabs the air, punctuating his point. "..are the same as every other whore," he spits out darkly.

Her voice, this time, trembles and sound broken.

"You…you don't care that I love you?" she asks feebly, folding her arms around her body, suddenly so, so tired and so broken.

He laughs manically, eyes dark. "…You're just the same as any other Capitol bitch." His words are like poison. "…And no, I don't care…because you're a lying mutt!"

"In fact…" he says slowly, cruelly and smiles at her flinch. "...I felt _nothing..."_

Peeta Mellark turns away, heart racing, memories spurning and leaves through the door, never once looking back. He'll have some blonde slut warm his bed tonight.

_This wasn't great. Or good, or nice or wonderful. The mutt is no better. _

She sinks down to the floor and sits there, lifeless and hollow. He's punched a hole through her chest, right through her soul and she can't waive the emptiness away because it's there and it's corrupting her. His very eyes were conceived in sin, begging her for the things she should never have given. She feels nothing. Her tears slip down cold and hapless, but she doesn't register that fact. Her heart feels cold and heavy and her limbs covered in dirt, blood coating her nails. She's got nothing to remember him by but the hollow in her chest.

Katniss Everdeen can't even bring herself to cry.

Another game. Just another game. With different rules. But a game, still.

Always a piece of their Games.

Always a _piece. _

So easily crushed and used and abused by the Capitol- always their Games, always their rules, always their victory.

Her hand reaches for the knotted rope and she begins making knots, the harder ones because this…. what just happened has been the hardest thing, hasn't it? Finnick's knots, she says to herself and makes them over and over, cold tears slithering down her cold skin, down her naked body and onto the rope.

Peeta's right, she thinks. Of course, he'd feel nothing. Of course, he'd win. Of course, he'd leave. Of course, he'd have played this Game before and come out unscathed. Of course, she's wrong. Always was, always is, always will.

And so, Katniss says it out loud to herself (to make sure it's real)

_I'm always been a mutt to begin with._

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**AUTHOR NOTE:**

I'm not sure if it's good enough. I wrote this for the Hunger Games Kink Meme at Live Journal, and I love writing a Dark Peeta, so please review and let me know. Get a cookie in return. I'll be putting up a list of prompts on Tumblr for Everlark and Dramione, so PM if you're interested.

Thank you so much,

WBHL


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